


hand in unlovable hand

by VHALMTYR



Series: no friends closer than the ones we've lost [1]
Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Character Study, M/M, Religious Themes, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-07-18 22:00:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16127594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VHALMTYR/pseuds/VHALMTYR
Summary: John might have opened the door, but Rook's the one who steps over the threshold.





	hand in unlovable hand

John is right, in some ways, about Rook’s sin.

Wrath is not a dirty word, to Rook. He’s always been _wrathful_. Had anger issues growing up, a short temper, easy to break - some days he fears he’s sinking back into the foolish young man he’d been then, staring out at nothing behind the bars of the drunk tank. It’s easier to do, to move the blood on his hands to his shoulders, and just call it _too_ _angry_.

He’s better, now, in some ways. Worse, in others.

Rook’s never been soft, and he knows that, doesn’t think he’d know how to try to be even if he wanted to. John doesn’t seem to want him to be, either. He’s worse in this:

John’s not so heavy that Rook feels pinned when he’s on top of him. In fact, compared to Rook, John’s fairly small. Not as small as Faith, but still. Rook feels like it’d be easy to put his fingers around his windpipe, if he wanted. Or around the back of his neck, apply pressure and twist. (He’s done it a thousand times before, to what feels like a thousand men. The context is just different. Why has he let it be different?)

“This would be easier if you just confessed,” John hisses. His voice is low in his throat, and Rook shifts. Not in discomfort - something else, something-

He pulls John in, instead. The kiss is frantic and bloody and he’s got his fingers in John’s hair, all bite. Their teeth clack together for a brief moment and he pulls away to _look_ at the other, gather his bearings.

John’s got a hand on the column of Rook’s throat but he finds there’s no panic there. His fingers are long and spindly and two of them are crooked from being reset the wrong way. If his chest twists at the thought he doesn’t acknowledge it, just stares at John.

He wants to ask, but doesn’t know how. Are they doing this again? What’s the policy on repeat offenses, when it comes to bedroom eyes outside of marriage? The thought pulls at the corner of his mouth, and John brushes it away with the pad of his thumb to pull him in again.

He doesn’t know how John sleeps here. Here: on his ranch, in his luxurious bedroom, the radios quiet for the night. In his bed, the mattress so soft compared to the dirt and grass Rook has learned to embrace. There’s the hush of Peggies on patrol outside and some downstairs, playing poker and smoking cigarettes. (Are they even allowed to smoke? Rook doesn’t know, but he’s _seen_ it. He knowshe won’t be settling here for the night, couldn’t stomach it.

The door is locked. “They won’t say anything even if they do hear,” John reassures, but Rook worries nonetheless.

Crooked fingers trailing downwards, across the slope of his collarbone, settling on the ugly tattoo on his chest: it wasn’t meant to be pretty, wasn’t meant to be there for long. But he doesn’t have the will to rip it from his own flesh, and he won’t let John. It’s neither a mark of pride nor shame. It’s just - _there_. An identifier. A name, in place of his actual one.

“You’re supposed to cut it out, you know. It wasn’t meant to be there forever.” John says, voice hushed. He should have carved the sin from his flesh himself.

“Maybe,” Rook replies. He doesn’t finish. He rocks his hips up instead, tugs at dark brown hair, hears John pull in a sharp breath. He takes the distraction as an opportunity, darting his free hand down to pull John from his pants.

He’s already half hard, and seems content to rut for a minute against the heat as Rook moves his hand in easy motions - it’s dry, and Rook’s not sure how good that actually feels, but he’s determined not to think too hard.

John stops himself short, rolling off of Rook to dig in the bedside table. Rook half watches and half finishes undressing, getting caught up on the button of his jeans. It’s been a long time since he’s been this exposed for anyone, but it may as well be here than anywhere else.

When Rook looks up again, John has returned to push him downwards onto the bed, rest between his legs with sharp eyes. He’s got a hand on Rook’s bare thigh, circling the ugly scar there. Embedded glass from the helicopter crash, Rook thinks. It’s a miracle he’d lived. John smiles, asks, “Do you think about this?”

Confession, then. He feels his chest heave in a strange way, sucking in air. “I don’t-”

“Do you think about _me_? Coming to me like this? Or were you somewhere else? On your knees?” It’s like the rug is pulled out from under him as he spreads his legs so John can settle further, and Rook can hear the pop of a bottle of lube. He tries to even out his breaths and relax as John works one finger into him, then two, rocks himself down.

“Sometimes,” he admits, in the same way he’s thought about the rest of them - each of the Seeds has their own strange allure, and it scares Rook to think he’s susceptible. A low moan rolls out of him, and John seems content, flexes his fingers and then adds another

In those strange fever dreams John has always been pliant, easy to bend, set aflame by touch alone. He never swallows smoke. But here he’s all hard lines and dark ink, and he lets his eyes wander as he’s worked open. Eden on his skin as he takes Rook’s hard cock in hand, on his mouth as he bends to bite at the inside of Rook’s thigh, just next to the scar.

“C’mon, John, c’mon-” He urges only out of impatience, because he knows these things take time, but he can feel the head of his cock leaking and John’s hardness against his leg, waiting. This isn’t how he’d imagined it, how he’d seen this playing out.

John finally concedes and has to cover Rook’s mouth when he lets out a cry of half pleasure, half victory, pushes in slow enough to feel like Rook’s burning up from the inside. It takes a minute to find their pace, John pushing and Rook pulling, rocking against one another. The slap of skin against skin is almost _too_ loud, and he wonders about John’s promise from earlier.

They won’t tell. Rook will make sure they won’t, in the early morning hours after this, in the ugly sort of way. The wrathlike sort of way. He wonders if John expects that. He groans as John leans into him, teeth clenched, strands of hair falling into his face. Rook’s greedy with this, takes his time, keeps his hands clutching at the sheets.

The bed rocks with their movements, and Rook knows all too well that this won’t last long. He tries to make the best of it, feels John’s lower body altogether tense against the digging of Rook’s heel into the small of his back, grunting, “c’mon, c’mon, _please-_ ”

John comes with a cry and Rook pulls him down to slot their mouths together, breathing into him, biting into him as John spills inside him. It’s no dirtier than being covered in blood but he still revels in it, a laugh spilling out of him. It’s half-muffled but John soon follows, chuckling as one hand covers Rook’s on the sheet while the other strokes and twists him in just the right way.

He chokes as he comes, shuddering and shaking apart.  His legs fall, unable to keep them up. John has done this. John has undone him. He feels crushed up, like a ball of paper. There are lips on his neck.

They stay like that, breathing, until John pulls out, rolls off of him, stares at the marks on his chest: marks of his own making. Rook is already considering getting up. He’s never been good at pillow talking. But he stays put, because John says nothing, just lays next to him and breathes.

And then: “You should let me tattoo you again. You could be a masterpiece.” It’s such a not-John thing to say, that Rook laughs, half-expecting him to finish it with _my magnum opus_. Or something worse. He turns his head, expecting a sharp gaze, sharp lines, sharp hands, sharp touches, and sees-

John is… soft. His expression has eased into something much less harsh, almost sad, as if the thought of never getting anything onto Rook again is something worth being upset over. Rook swallows. “Maybe, one day.” (It won’t happen: Rook would never let it happen. He’s going to eat his words. Lying is a sin.)

It’s not an answer. But John hums anyways, content to have his small confession, and closes his eyes. Rook waits until his breath smooths out into something like sleep before he slips out of the bed, gathers his clothes and leaves the same way he’d gotten in. The window creaks as he closes it, but no alarms ring out at the sound; any Peggies on patrol now will be sitting at the entrance, gathering their winnings and putting their cigarettes in an ashtray.

Religious men are still men, after all. Men get tired. Lazy. He forgets, sometimes, that the Peggies are just men and women.

 _Maybe_ , Rook thinks. But maybe is a dangerous word. There can be no _maybes,_ here, with John Seed and his kin. So he leaves it there, and hopes John won’t find it on the sill at dawn.

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be something else, but this is what i ended up with. oops!
> 
> comments + kudos are my fave. feel free to yell at me, but, like, in a fun way.


End file.
